


all's well that ends well

by heyabyoutkast



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, pillowtalk, this is a gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23026576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyabyoutkast/pseuds/heyabyoutkast
Summary: miya, osamu. pillowtalkthat's it. that's the story.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 164





	all's well that ends well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yolo_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yolo_Queen/gifts).



> the only thing harmed in the process was my brain and perhaps my dignity.

“So, is your dick, like, the same as Atsumu’s?”

Your gaze is floating hither thither at the ceiling, searching for nothing in particular in the endless expanse of plaster. The sinful claws of pleasure had stolen your ability to focus on anything (and apparently your tact too, though anyone who even remotely knows of you would argue otherwise). But it’s nothing to really worry about. It’ll come back in an hour or so, you reassure yourself – together with the sensation in your legs and the ability to distinguish between pleasant aromas and the dank smell of the night’s exploits.

The bed shifts underneath you. There’s a squeak of the mattress springs and a shuffle of the sheets and you could basically _feel_ Osamu’s disgust. Well, that’s nothing special. The mere utterance of the _A-word_ gets some sort of – mostly (always) negative – reaction from the man currently sighing next to you.

“Why wouldya even say that?” Osamu finally responds. There’s a feeling of having been betrayed in his voice and you wonder if it’s sarcasm. The spectrum of tones that you’ve heard him create is akin to the range of colour’s in a goth’s closet. On second thought, he _can_ get quite vocal when heated, but the metaphor still stands: there’s still the obligatory blood-red, spiked pumps, after all.

“Well your faces are the same, so’s your bodies – “

“Please don’t continue.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it before.”

“No I haven’t, actually.” There’s a bit of a bite to his clarification, it makes you giggle. “But now the thought’s in my head and,” he groans, “I really don’t need it ta be.”

The last part of his sentence comes out a little muffled, so you peel your eyes from the very interesting ceiling to look. Sure enough, the man is trying to suffocate himself with your pillow. The sight is rather cute, you admit. Not the killing himself part, but the part where the usually reserved Osamu Miya is puffing his cheeks against floral pillow covers. Now _that’s_ one for the national gallery.

And you’ve decided; as a newly self-declared curator, one painting isn’t enough.

“Think about it,” you say, propping yourself up against the headboard. Osamu grunts. It sounds strangely like a ‘shaddup’, but really, you’re not too sure. And as they say, when you assume, it makes an ass out of you and me. “I mean technically they would be exactly the same in size because your genes are identical, right?”

He releases another sound. It’s weaker and almost pitiful this time as he drags out the last syllable till it fades into something like a grumble. Osamu sure is acting like a child. And to think he had just been fucking you minutes earlier…

You laugh and ruffle his already dishevelled hair. Truthfully, it’s a thought that’s been marinating in the cesspool of obscenity in your head ever since you found out the cute Miya boy from the onigiri shop came in a pair. Although, when you finally met the other twin yourself, you soon realised that Atsumu was the shoe with a dirty piece of gum stuck to its sole, and thus this funny thought remained just that.

But before you can keep thinking about shoe metaphors (of which you apparently have many), a clamp around your wrist stops you in your tracks. With his face still deep within your pillow, Osamu tightens his grip. You watch in amusement at how his thumb overlaps the second joint of his middle finger as if it were the easiest thing in the world and it fans the flame in your belly that was just about to die. Finally, he turns to face you and your breath hitches.

“Oi.”

_Oh?_

Well, now… You don’t mind a good set of blood-red pumps.

His stare is dark, like bitter chocolate. And just like that, the slight furrow of his eyebrows become the flutter of butterfly wings that send a tornado to the pits of your stomach. Ah, and you think you’ve found the Mona Lisa to your Louvre. God, the things he makes you feel.

“So,” you don’t care if you seem impatient, “we’re going again, huh?”

Osamu smiles his very gentle smile.

“You’re goin’ again,” in one sleepy movement, he turns his toned back to you, “I’m,” he yawns, “goin’ ta sleep.”

“W-what.” You shake his firm shoulder. You could feel the vibrations of a silent laugh reverberate underneath your fingertips. “You can’t just do that.”

Osamu exaggerates a yawn and smacks his lips. _Why you little—_

“I got tired listening to my girlfriend talk about my brother’s…” Osamu pauses and hums in fake-deep-thought, “penis.”

*

That night you learnt a lesson.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i love you @Yolo_Queen uwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwu hehehe.


End file.
